Magic and Mayhem: A Collection of 21 Fantasy Novels

by Jasmine Walt

  “I meant to call, but figured it would only slow me down. I just got a dog, and I'm adjusting—”

  He grins. “What breed? I didn't know you wanted a puppy. I'd have gotten you one from my sister; she breeds the most beautiful Lhasa Apsos…”

  “I didn't know I wanted a dog, either.” I squeeze his hand. “He's a stray. I'm just holding on to him until I've found him a safe home.”

  “Oh.” He smiles, paternally. “That's what I love about you. Don't ever lose that optimism.”

  He reaches into his wallet and pulls out several bills. It's definitely more than the usual. He slips it across the table to me. “Buy something nice for him. From me.”

  I grin and nod. That'll definitely pay for the stuff I already bought Ballad and some of what's probably gonna be a dramatically increased meat budget if he keeps insisting on eating my food and ignoring everything I put in his bowl.

  “So he's not microchipped, then?”

  I pale. “Shit, I didn't even think about that. I put up signs and such, but he seemed like he didn't need medical treatment, so it never occurred to me.”

  Lesley pats my hand again. “You better get on that then, short stuff.”

  “Yeah. I'll take him in tomorrow. Maybe wait a day or two so he's on his feet steadier. He's still really lethargic.”

  He looks at me and raises an eyebrow. “I, uh, took him in after a friend hit him with his car,” I explain. “He's a big beast, though. Seemed a little dazed, and that's it. He's been fine.” I duck my head sheepishly. The whole story sounds silly, put like that. And Lesley loves to do that mentor thing anyway. He doesn't actually want me to be able to keep up when he goes on a political tangent. He likes the idea that my life is just messy enough for there to be shit he can come in and fix. He likes the idea that, though he may be insignificant everywhere else, with me, he can be strong and worth listening to. He wants someone to say “thank you” without it sounding like an aggrieved attempt to placate him or positive reinforcement.

  He shakes his head. “God, the way you live, short stuff. You make me feel old.”

  I smile and cock an eyebrow, not entirely sure how to take that.

  “In a good way, I mean.”

  I shrug and pout a little. He strokes my cheek but pulls away before I might tell him to stop. There's not any physical contact in our arrangement, beyond flirting or handholding. Maybe, eventually, he'll want that to change, and I'll think it through—he's not a bad sort, and sort of handsome in a silver fox kind of way—but for the moment, it's just something to keep an eye on.

  “I promise. I've got it in hand.” I smile at him as brightly as I can.

  “Good. That reminds me—when I was in Paris last time, I bought something for you.”

  I move my plate out of the way before I reach for the box he's offering. It's probably clothes or something, which I never say no to. I've only got a little time before I need to get ready for work, but I don't dare let Lesley catch on that I'm in a rush.

  9

  Reza

  Time stretches on interminably while she's gone. Did Barrett hunt her down despite her limited protection? Or is it a more mundane threat? Is she okay?

  To ease my mind, I comb over her home while I wait. Family albums: her in the arms of people who look nothing like her. Outside of my canine form, I can see the rich colors that shade her, her flushed cheeks, even skin, chocolate hair. Scattered around the apartment are a handful of framed images of her with other women, including the striking brown woman who was here the other day. They're in skimpy, two-piece outfits, short skirts and bandeau tops, or bikinis. It looks like there's a party happening behind them.

  Her cheeks are flushed and glossed with sweat. There's a pink mark on one sharp cheekbone where her friend must have just kissed her in a previous attempt at nailing that selfie.

  It's so strange being in her space.

  In a box in her closet, there's a collection of papers. A birth certificate for Alisa Reynolds and a name change petition proclaiming her new last name as Swanson. Reason: adoption.

  I return to the family album and manage to peg a change. Around age five, the people holding her disappear and are replaced with two new women. The other articles explain it: New DUI laws in committee after two people killed in collision with drunk driver. Apparently, her birth parents, Angela and Larry Reynolds, died in that crash, and Alisa was injured. The other driver had repeated convictions for DUI and public intoxication, some involving narcotics, and had been skipping out on the drug tests that were a part of his parole.

  Beneath the articles, a handwritten letter on aged stationary:

  Alisa, we're so happy to have you staying with us. Your parents were far too special for anyone to replace them, but I hope you'll consider us family, too. They'll be smiling on you from heaven, and I'll take as many pictures of you as I can so that when I beat you there, I can get them all caught up on the amazing woman you're gonna grow up to be. Your mom was my family when I needed it, and I'm honored to be your family, too. I miss them. Almost as much as you do, probably. And I'm here for you.

  Much love,

  Reba (and Annie)

  It's uncomfortable reading such personal stuff. I put the papers back and replace the box. The note didn't even reveal how she came to know the magic she's plying. Not that it would, but it's the most personal thing here that might have given me a clue.

  There's a thump on the doorstep, and I tense, torn between adding some more wolflike weapons and playing meek. Then, her voice comes through the door with a giggly lilt. “Shit.”

  I reach for the dog, becoming Ballad as she again opens the door. Another friend is with her, a pretty blond woman who's obviously less tanked than she is. Her friend props her up on the walk to the couch and sets her down before walking to the kitchen to start throwing together tea.

  Alisa hardly notices, she's so entranced in the story she was telling. “What kind of creep buys these—” she waves her heels, nearly knocking a lamp down. “I mean, I can see buying them for a frenemy, but for someone you like? Who does that?”

  “Someone who has no fucking clue that, with a heel that tall, you need to have at least size nine, size ten feet before the slope won't be a hobbling device? What kind of idiot leaves the house in them? I thought you were going to keel over like a rotted tree.”

  She laughs. “What? I thought, he knows my size. Surely it'll be fine, and he'll just smile to know I remembered he gave them to me. Did I really look that bad? I thought I had the brave face on—”

  “With the help of lots of liquor. Lots. Do you want me to stay over, make sure you don't pass out in your own vomit or something?” The other woman hands a mug of tea to Alisa.

  “Ugh. No. You know I've got that thing…” Alisa trails off, resting her head against the couch and taking several gulps of tea. She must have burned her tongue from the way her nose wrinkles.

  “Yeah, yeah. That thing where you don't do roommates, and you kick every bedmate out before you'll shut your eyes.”

  “It's just weird. In the dark, you hear a noise, breathing, and it could be anything. How can anyone sleep like that?”

  “So you're afraid of the dark, then?” the woman teases, sweeping her hair behind her ears.

  “No, not the dark. Just the things in the dark.” Alisa puts the cup down and begins pacing. Her steps are uneven, but still, she's tracing out the same shape as on her bedroom carpet.

  “Will you sit down? You're making me sick. Why do you do that?”

  “I don't know. My mom told me to when I was young. Said I'd feel better if I did it when I was scared. It works. It's habit when I can't sit still.”

  “What're you even worrying about, anyway? You said you'd gotten help with the dog, and it wasn't gonna cut into your rent money, so—”

  “I don't even know. The past few days, I've just had this…I don't know…this feeling of being watched. I visit the store and it seems like there's always someone standing next to me.
I know it's just paranoia, but…”

  Paranoia, or an incubus who can tell I've been with her, even if he can't tell where or how. I've got to warn her. Just as soon as her friend leaves.

  “You want one of my Xanax? It might do you some good.” The woman rummages in her purse until Alisa clumsily shoves her hands out of the way. “Suit yourself. Anyway, I've gotta take off…if you're sure you're fine.”

  Alisa nods and downs the rest of her tea. “I'm a big girl. I've got it. Thanks for the ride home.”

  “Thanks for buying the booze tonight. Catch ya soon. The Hump Day thing, right? You're on the schedule for that?”

  “Mmm.” Alisa nods, already wilting. She lays on the couch, not even bothering to go to the bedroom.

  “Okay. See ya then.”

  The woman leaves, giving me my chance.

  I drop my attempts to keep canine form, straightening as a man as the fur melts back into my skin and my bones condense into more natural human shapes. The air tickles my newly-hairless skin, still somewhat chilly from having the front door opened and closed so much. Alisa's eyes widen as her gaze lands on me. “Holy shit. I'm drunk,” she chuckles, turning her face away.

  “Hey. Hey. We need to talk,” I say, but she doesn't seem interested in looking at me again.

  I can't let myself get caught up staring at her, finally face-to-face with every vibrant color that's come to life. Even the dullness of her sweet fragrance, compared to my canine nose, seems to reveal new nuances as the smells blend into one vague, though pleasant, whole.

  She mumbles and rolls over, putting her back to me. I shake her shoulder, and her eyes travel up my chest, making me realize it's bare. But they're half lidded. With her protection spell replenished, she must be feeling some relief. Or the spell tired her out. I won't be able to talk to her tonight. Her eyelids sag lower, and her cheeks redden, a silly grin on her face. At least she's aware of that. Still won't respond to any questions, though.

  I sigh and pick her up. The air's cold against my furless skin, and she's entirely too light in my arms. I put her in bed and return to the front room to lay down. In the morning, I'll come clean. In the morning, I'll tell her she's not paranoid—she needs to run. Sometime when she'll be less inclined to ogle herself into a coma. You'd think the woman had never seen a penis before.

  I put my head in my hands, wondering if she's out of it enough to notice me steeping the teabag in her mug for another cup. I want the warmth, want something to pass the time. Tea sounds heavenly. Her markings flicker, the spell's strength straining to cover two fully-grown people, not just one and a dog. Reluctantly, I sink back into the dog's mind and body and try to shut my eyes.

  I'm half asleep when a soft cry disturbs me. Fearing something's wrong, I nose my way into the bedroom. Alisa's right where I left her, but her skirt's riding high, and her hand is between her legs.

  Oh.

  For a moment, I lose my form and hurriedly blink to clear the image out of my head. The sight of her rosebud pink lips parted with arousal, her neatly trimmed curls brushing against her fingertips. The swell of her breasts, her nipples taut peaks despite the fabric of her dress, her chest heaving with her urgent gasps. But being canine again makes it worse, as I have just enough of my humanity to crave the smell of her cream and strong enough senses to almost be able to taste it.

  Her eyes are fixed on me. Did she see me flicker?

  She snaps her fingers and points to the door, her meaning plain. I leave, shaking my head to clear it away. But when her soft gasps and muted cries resume, I'm lost. I can't keep my changed form in mind, not when every bit of me demands that I storm back in there, gather her in my arms, and kiss her until she listens to me, drunkenness be damned. God, even as a man, I can still smell her arousal, the heady smell of sex. I sink onto her couch, head in hands.

  Maybe the dog's rubbing off on me…to have dragged me so far from my senses. I barely know anything about the woman, except that she's got a good heart, a creative mind, and a luscious body. I shouldn't crave her with this intensity. I don't dare let myself, not knowing the likelihood that they will target her for harboring me.

  If she'll flee, maybe I should steer her to the Well. Maybe I should protect her in deed as well as word. But if she's unaware of her family's magical background, I'd be dragging her into a wider, worse world. One where she'd be solidly over her head.

  The hours pass by slowly with my bleak thoughts until she finally nudges the door open and stumbles to the bathroom. She doesn't even notice me on the couch, and if I'm here when she gets out, it's gonna be terribly frightening. I force myself to remember the air against my lolling tongue and the smells and grays of dogdom. My body sinks back into that of her dog. The water runs for a while, and there's the smell of mint—she must be brushing her teeth. When she's done, she kneels in front of me and pats my head. I open my eyes warily.

  “Sorry about that, big guy. It's just weird, y'know? Not the least because the moment you try humping someone's leg, your fun parts are gone. It just seems a little cruel.”

  Like hell. I can't resist a whuff at the idea of her castrating me like so many pet owners do. She smiles and ruffles the fur on my head. “Wanna go back to bed? It feels like a mouse died and rotted in my head.”

  I follow her into the bedroom and lay at her feet. Same as last time, she twists in bed until her arms are around me. She washed her hands, but I can still smell her scent on her fingers, honeyed and tangy.

  At some point, the musky tones erode my ability to grasp the canine mind. My limbs lengthen and lose their fur, and large swaths of her skin rub against mine, bare and soft. I doze off with that womanly scent still gripping me.

  I should be ashamed to steal these moments, but there's a feeling of rightness to it that jars me. I put my hand over hers, tangling her fingers with mine.

  Alisa, you're not gonna die because of me. I promise.

  10

  Alisa

  Warmth surrounds me, not just the soft canine stink I'm rapidly growing accustomed to, but something more masculine, more appealing. My arms are wrapped around someone with corded muscles. Since there's no way Riley would have let me bring home a stranger last night, not as tanked as I was to survive the heels from hell—how the hell did I have the idea that liquor would help that?—I must still be dreaming. Half asleep.

  Yeah. Now I remember. A strange, naked man looming over me, his mannerisms comfortable and his voice a protective rumble. I'm still dreaming that he's beside me.

  I bury my face between his shoulder blades and smile. I love a good sex dream. Every nerve in my body sings—I touched myself last night and saw him above me. He didn't join in. I woke to Ballad staring at me and my hand between my legs. Not exactly a proud moment. I might have to start shutting the bedroom door at night to get some privacy. Either that or develop a new love for shower masturbation since I doubt he'd follow me in there. I've never known a dog without an aversion to baths.

  Anyway, I must have drifted off again, my mind not deterred from the fantasy in my arms. But if this a lustful dream, why is his breathing so deep? Why isn't he gathering me into his arms, guiding me on top of him?

  Whatever. Dreams have no logic. None. It's still pleasant.

  I shut my eyes and memorize his scent, a soft note that might be rainwater buried among masculine spices and…something that smells like my own shampoo?

  Shit. I'm too drunk for this fuckery. I count my breaths and let the dream proceed at its own pace. And eventually, I open my eyes anew—to the real world this time. I wake up feeling like someone's hammering the inside of my skull. My feet ache as though they've been run over.

  Ballad's in bed with me, his chin draped over my chest and his ribs and stomach exposed to the air. His skull is surprisingly heavy. No wonder I dreamed of something firm pressing against my chest. I rub his stomach and ease out from under him. He doesn't wake, though his tail wags halfheartedly.

  I've gotta run to the bank and deposit last ni
ght's tips. I don't like having this much money on hand. It just seems like an invitation for someone to come rob me.

  While I wait in line, my eyes slitted with my hangover, I try to piece together everything that happened after Riley left. I don't even remember walking to bed. I didn't even drink that much—but I've apparently got the tolerance of a kid half my age. Remind me not to do that again.

  I remember the strange man, the way I held him. The burns on his shoulder, and strange ridges where his neck meets his collarbone, as though something was pushing against the skin. Somehow, it just felt natural. I don't think I've had many dreams where I'm actually at home; they're usually more fantastical than that. Still, “not many” doesn't mean none.

  Maybe dumping Evan is getting to me more than I thought. Maybe I did push him away because I'm afraid of the dark, like Riley said.

  Maybe that's why my pleasant dream is having a hunk like the mystery man in bed with me, in my arms, but not doing anything that might posit him as ally or foe. Maybe there's more eroticism for me in a blank slate than in a full-fledged person. That's a bleak and sobering thought.

  I shake my head and shove several bundles of money forward, paper-clipped into twenty-dollar bundles. The teller knows the deal by now. He nods and works quietly. No doubt he doesn't trust himself not to ask where I'm working so he can come watch me later. I wish I could take it to the ATM to deposit, but I don't think the machine could handle two hundred dollars in singles, at least, not without pissing off every person in line behind me waiting to withdraw some pocket money.

  What did the man even look like? I felt him more than saw him. I couldn't tell what color his eyes were. His hair was sandy, and he had a square jaw and deep-set eyes. But other than that, I couldn't say. His face was in shadow.

  Ugh. I'm never going to drink that much again. Never.